


Fine Choreography

by tielan



Category: Stargate Atlantis, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, PWP, Porn Battle, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-20
Updated: 2011-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-22 21:19:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/pseuds/tielan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his bones, Logan knows fighting is a dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fine Choreography

In his bones, Logan knows fighting is a dance. The moves are hard and vicious instead of slow and smooth, and the goal isn't seduction but dominance, but there's a fine choreography in the give and take, in the slash of his claws and the stretch of his muscles, in the movements of body and the focus of the mind.

He finds it hard to find someone to spar with; few will challenge him. Even among the mutants who could hold him off, there's a reluctance to engage - they don't want to dance with death.

She ducks under his swipe and her stave rings against his knuckles like a bell - or a teacher reprimanding a slow student. Momentum takes her out of his range, out of his reach, and she twists aside of his claws with an instinct that goes beyond humanity.

Is she a mutant? He can't smell it on her - the sense of _other_ that marks those like him. There's no scent of fear on her - not the like most people he's faced. A shimmer of adrenaline in her scent, the darker note of cool purpose threaded through the air, and the silver-thread of admiration for the opponent she faces and his skill - Logan.

It should be a vastly unfair fight; a two-hundred fifty pound man of six feet against a slim woman whose only apparent defence is the adamantium-laced staves she wields. But she's undaunted by his strength, unwilling to relinquish the smile that glows on her lips beneath a soft pearl of sweat as she defends, defends, defends, allowing him to lead with the attack, allowing him to spend himself in the familiar moves, familiar aggression.

Yet she twists and turns, defends and deters, blocks and backs away, never cornered, never cowed. And when the ten minutes are up, she's still standing, unbleeding, unbroken, unbowed.

"You're good," he tells her as she slings the towel around her neck afterwards, white cotton against brown skin. It's high praise, and from the smile on her lips as she glances at him, she knows it. "Where'd you learn to fight like that?"

There's a hesitation in her at his question - there always is when she's asked where she came from. "Somewhere else," she says, and her fingers linger on something silvery-dark in her bag - the scent is steel and rubber and military-male - dogtags? "Another time and place."

Somewhere else where Teyla Emmagan danced with a harder death than even Logan can offer.

Logan doesn't ask. He understands secrets.

\--

In his balls, Logan knows sex is a dance - much like fighting. The choice of a partner, the slow inward circling, the first tentative encounters, then the fierce, ferocious engagement of body and the arsenal of desire.

In the hot grind of hips against hips, with his beard scraping dull red lines into the milky chocolate of her skin, Logan revels in the scent of her desire, in the strength within the small frame, in the spirit that beats in the heart he can feel beneath the curve of her breast.

Teyla doesn't complain of his weight, takes the pain with the pleasure, and expects to be pleased as much as she expects to please.

She comes with a gasp and a laugh, triumphant and delighted, and Logan's fingers clench on her thighs as her mouth covers his, tasting, tongueing, and he spends himself in her with a cry that aches in his bones.


End file.
